


Song of the Phoenix

by valancy_joy



Category: Beauty and the Beast (TV), Torchwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/pseuds/valancy_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's December 1991 and two men with murders on their minds meet one fateful night in New York City's Central Park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Some graphic violence. For BatB fans, this is post season 3 with all the baggage that entails. For Torchwood fans, this is a decade or so before Jack would party like its 1999.

Thomas Robert Fuller knew that what he was doing was wrong. He didn't care. It felt good. Sure he'd cried over that first boy he'd killed, but he was sloppy back then. He blamed himself. He brought out the knife too soon. He'd had to cut that pretty one's face to shut him up. But the gush of blood is a welcome thing now. It pulses sometimes from severed arteries, and he finds himself kneeling next to the body, touching it, and himself, hot and wet and slick and those are the best nights.

He thinks he should be worried about these things he does. But he's not. He's proud. Very proud of himself, in fact, when the first of the pretty ones turns up in The Ledger. He sees the article by accident. The woman across from him on the subway is reading her paper. Staring back at him from the front page is the boy who hours before had begged him for his life. Had promised him anything, only please PLEASE let him live. He taught that boy some manners in the end. Someone that tempting should have known better, he thinks later as he reads the article in his office. After all, it turns out he _("Larson Pruitt, 25, son of Frederick Pruitt, who made Pruitt Publishing a household name...")_ had been someone important in the world outside the park. Had friends, relatives, a trust fund, and now, a drawer in the morgue.

"I did that," he thinks as he smooths his fingers across the words printed for all to see.

"That boy died, and I'm the one who made it happen."

He clips the boy's picture, and the article out of the paper, puts it in an empty file folder and leaves it sitting on his desk all day, occasionally stopping to run the palm of his hand across the smooth cold surface. He'd run his hands across the boy's belly in much the same way as he lay on the ground, dry leaves crunching beneath him.

Tom scours the papers after that, for there are other boys, and other articles to add to that folder of his. Sometimes there is no record. The boy simply disappears. Ones who vanish like the latest one whose dark skin he had enjoyed touching, who had said softly that he "didn't do these sorts of things, normally." He had taken his time with that one, pulling him gently into the shadow of the trees.

"Never mind," he'd said undoing shirt buttons. "Just let me do this. It'll be good, you'll see."

He's good with his hands, and good with his mouth, and there in the darkness, both of them are panting with need and want. When the boy shudders his release, and slumps back against the tree, he pins him there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the boy's pulse pounding beneath his fingers. Then with a quick flick of his knife, the boy slumps to the ground, and Tom Fuller decides he's never been happier.

Tom has a special corner of the park he likes to watch over. He's heard it called Juniper Hill, although no one remembers why any more. On this lovely fall evening, the moon is shining down, glinting off everything. He likes these nights for watching, for planning, for dreaming. The whisper of the wind through the trees around him dulls the traffic noises as he wanders into their shadows. From his favorite spot he can look down the hill and watch the stealthy comings and goings below him. There is a path, lit by lantern posts, that leads to an ornamental stone bridge that crosses a dry culvert. Under the lamppost is a bench where he often finds his pretty ones.

Indeed there is one sitting there now, slumped back, legs spread. It's a very pretty wanton, wearing a tight white t-shirt and a dark vest. This one is a bit older than the ones who usually catch his eye, but this excites him. He feels ready for the challenge. And so he watches. Watches as the wanton one props one leg up on the bench and wraps his arm around it. This one is patient. He simply sits and waits on his bench, the light from the lamp above his head making his dark hair gleam.

And eventually, down the path comes a red-haired boy, pale, in the dim light, and overly casual.

In the cool evening air, with the breeze blowing in just the right way, he can hear their conversation.

"You lost?" the wanton one asks finally, when the boy seems unable to find the words.

"I ... I don't think so," the kid stammers, hands jammed in his pockets, trying to look relaxed.

"Then why don't you come over here and tell me what you're looking for," prompts the dark haired one, shifting so that his feet are on the ground. He leans languidly against the slats of the bench back, one arm across the top of it, while the other hand is popping the top button of his jeans.

The kid shuffles closer, and once he's in arm's reach, he's pulled in close, the other man's hands cupped around his ass, trapped by those thighs and a warm, gleaming smile. The wanton looks up at the kid, trying to catch his eyes.

Tom recognizes that look. The look that says he likes the shy ones. The gleam which indicates that they're a challenge but so worth the extra effort. Oh, this dark-haired beauty is one he is going to have to get to know better some night when there's less light, and more time.

The shy one is running his hands across the wanton's shoulders, his fingers picking idly at some silver trifle pinned to the man's vest.

The shy one finally meets the smiler's eyes, and asks, "What's your name?"

The wanton has clearly done this sort of thing many, many times. It shows in the smooth way he has of getting to his feet and wrapping his arms around the boy and pulling him tightly against him before kissing him messily as his fingernails rake across the boy's ass.

"You can call me Pilot," the wanton says as he twines his hand in the boy's.

"Don't worry, kid," he says with a laugh. "I'll make sure you come in for a landing." And with that he leads the boy down the grassy bank into the dark shadows below.

 

What none of these men who watch and wait in the shadows know is that far below them, in secret tunnels, live a community of people dedicated to creating a world that is in many ways, the opposite of their world.

And on this night, the residents of the tunnels are gathered in a book-lined cavern deep in the earth beneath New York City for a remembrance. The head of their community stands among them, holding a child in his arms.

"One year ago tonight, this child was born into the world above. He was lost to us then. Taken at the whim of a man who sought only to satisfy his own selfish desires. This child's mother died giving him life. And so we stand together today in remembrance of Catherine Chandler, and in celebration of the life of her son, Jacob.

A tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a dark cloak, steps forward. He is unlike any of the others gathered in that chamber, and yet, so familiar to them, they have long since forgotten his differences. Opening a book with trembling hands, he begins to read.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour   
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,   
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream   
In the elms above the flooded stream;   
Imagining in excited reverie   
That the future years had come,   
Dancing to a frenzied drum,   
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,   
The soul recovers radical innocence   
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;   
Though every face should scowl   
And every windy quarter howl   
Or every bellows burst, he must be happy still.

This man had, a year ago, tried to offer his own life in trade for his son's. And now, as he looks around the room, lit by the flicker of uncounted numbers of candles, he sees the faces of those nearest and dearest to him as they mark the first anniversary of this child's birth. All save the one face he wishes most of all to see.

At the finish of his poem, the man had taken his son into his arms, and whispered something in the child's ear. Then he turned to those assembled, and tried to speak, but found himself simply clutching his son to him, as the boy squirmed in his father's rough embrace.

A slender woman with long red hair stepped to the man's side.

"This is a day for remembering, Vincent," she said.

"Bittersweet, Diana, in so many ways," he replied, thinking of the child's mother, and the struggles she went through to give his boy life.

"Catherine loved her son, and she loved you. Of that I am sure," Diana said with a smile as Jacob waved his arms and reached out to try to grab handfuls of her hair.

"I see her every time I look at him. Sometimes, it's is more than I can bear," he said softly, placing the child in her arms, and then turning and walking away from the happy laughter that surrounded them as the community passed around slices of cake, and sought to replace loss with light and joy.

 

Days later, Thomas Fuller found the wanton in the park again. Nights of watching, followed by days of waiting, and finally he is going to be allowed his reward. At last, on a moon dark night he sees his chance to teach this brash one with the easy smiles and the willing hands what love is. He's seen that this one likes the reserved ones. So he unzips his dark green hooded sweater, ruffles up his hair, and unties one shoelace. Then, he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and sets out along the path that leads over the stone bridge and towards the man whose attention he is trying to get.

From his vantage point up the hill he has already observed the wanton one sitting on the back of the bench, one foot on the seat, and the other propped casually on the arm of the bench. It's ridiculous how obvious he's being about what he's got on offer. This one knows what he's got and what he wants. Tom appreciates that. But it's going to feel so good to get this one on his knees and wipe that sleek smile off his face.

So when he gets across the bridge, and seems to notice his untied shoelace for the first time, he crosses to the bench to put his foot up and retie it.

"Nice night," he says casually.

"Very nice," says the man sitting on the bench. Neither of them is under any illusion they're talking about the weather.

"Lots of stars out tonight," Tom says, looking around to make sure they're alone.

"Waste of time watching the stars," the wanton says bitterly with a laugh.

Tom turns to look at him. "Oh?"

But whatever he'd sensed in the man's voice is gone, swallowed up by loosely leashed desire.

So when the wanton says, "There are far better things to watch right here on Earth," Tom steps tentatively forward. He doesn't want to appear too eager.

"I'd like to be more of a do-er than a watch-er," he says at last, quickly meeting the other man's gaze, and then returning his eyes to the ground.

The wanton slips down from the top of the bench back so that he's within an arms reach of Tom, reaches out and grasps the bottom edges of his sweater and pulls him close, in between his legs.

"Watching is free, but doing will cost you..."

"How do I know I'll like what you're doing?"

"See these," the wanton replies, nodding to the silver wings pinned to his vest. "I was a pilot. I'm good with my hands..."

And sure enough the wanton's hands are drifting below Tom's belt, brushing lightly against his crotch.

And then true to form, Tom finds himself wrapped in the roaming arms of the other man, being kissed breathless.

"Not here," he whispers.

And soon they are in the dark underneath the stone bridge.

The wanton is, as promised, very good with his hands. Those wandering hands of his are eager to touch, his mouth eager to taste.

And this one is easily led. All it takes is a soft pressure on the pretty one's shoulders, and he drops to his knees willingly, those nimble fingers of his scrabbling at his zipper.

But when Tom makes his move, pinning him between his body and the rough sandstone blocks, he finds that this one is different from the others. He's got him pinned to the wall, one hand wound into the man's hair, pulling his head back to allow easy access for the knife he's got in his other hand. When he has the knife pressed to his throat, the wanton, inexplicably, presses forward. He seems almost eager to die. He looks up at Tom and smiles. For a moment, Tom cannot move. "This is wrong," he thinks. They are not supposed to welcome death.

Tom grabs the hair at the man's neck pulling his head even farther back, and presses the knife tight, a tiny trickle of blood seeping out from beneath the blade. This will surely wipe that pleased look off the other man's face. None of the rest has ever been this serene in the face of death. They are normally terrified, and they plead, with sounds ripped from the backs of their throats as he slices into their necks and they slide to the ground together.

But this, this laughing in the face of death, it makes him angry. This pretty thing has no right to take this pleasure from him. And so he finds himself wrapping his hands around the pretty one's head and banging it into the stone wall behind them. There is no fight, no objection, only a sort of dazed acceptance from the man on his knees.

And when he hears laughter amidst the cries of pain, Thomas Fuller finds himself furiously bashing the other man's skull back into the stones, until at last, the man slumps limp at his feet.

In his chamber deep below the New York City streets, Vincent tosses the Mabinogian aside. He is restless and feels the need to be doing something more active than reading tales he's read a hundred times before in preparation for his folklore class. His son is restless too, it seems, as he squirms sleepily in his crib.

Vincent smooths the pale hair on Jacob's head, humming as an encouragement to the boy to fall back asleep. The boy was so sensitive to the moods around him, that Vincent couldn't help wondering if he'd inherited some of his own empathic abilities. Certainly, Jacob looked nothing like him, except for the pale tawny hair that refused to lay flat, and was always a rumpled mess no matter how many times they tried to tame it with a comb.

When Jacob was quiet he tucked the blanket around him, and wandered down the tunnel to Father's library. He didn't know if Father would still be up. It was after midnight, but he found him in his favorite chair, glasses on his nose, reading away by the flickering candlelight.

"I feel the need to go for a walk, Father. Can you keep an ear out in case Jacob wakes again?"

The older man closed his book, a finger tucked between the pages to save his place, and looked up at his son.

"I can ask Mary, or one of the older girls assigned to nursery duty if you'd rather..." Vincent said, trailing off at the raised eyebrow of the other man.

"I think I can look after my own grandson," he said with a bit of a grumble. It was late after all, and he had been in the middle of reading. But looking after Jacob ranked high among Father's pleasures.

"I too have been reading. But I find it does not soothe me tonight. Maybe a long walk will settle me."

"I suppose I don't have to tell you to be careful."

"I don't suppose I could stop you," Vincent said, smiling.

Father took up his cane which had been propped up against this desk, and went up the stairs towards Vincent's quarters.

"I can read just as well in your chamber as in my own."

"Shall I ask someone to bring you a cup of tea as I pass the kitchens?" Vincent asked following Father down the tunnel.

"I would enjoy that," Father said turning in at the doorway to Vincent's chambers. "Unless Gerald is working late. I am tired of hearing him go on about that ice house idea…"

Vincent didn't stop to respond, but continued on through the tunnels towards the kitchen. Gerald's daughter Katie was up late, working away at some pastries for the morning. Vincent filled the kettle and set in on the hottest burner, and asked her to take Father a cup of tea when she had a moment.

And then he was free to make for the outer tunnels and the entrance they were using into the park these days. He nodded to the sentries posted along the way, and finally made his way outside.

Sometimes he needs to get away, to be by himself. And walking helps him think. It would be far safer to wander the tunnels of his home, but on nights like this he finds the stony walls, and dusty floors stifling, suffocating. It's almost as if he cannot breathe, trapped underground, and so he finds relief and solace in the world above.

He wonders if there is any part of the park he hasn't crossed at some point, though of course some places are safer than others.

He likes the trees. The dappled shadows their leaves make. The fresh, green, wet smell so different from the dank, dusty tunnels of his home. He stands under a pine tree, feeling the rough bark beneath his finger pads, enjoying the sharp sweet scent of it filling his nose as he pauses and takes a deep breath, breathing easier at last. When he sets off again, he listens to the scuff of leaves under his boots, the sleepy noises of birds and insects, and behind, beneath it all the city noises ever present in this island forest.

Keeping just off the wooded paths and cutting through the wooded gullies and culverts he made his way north, thinking that perhaps he can wander along the reservoir, feeling himself drawn to the waters edge. It seems an unbearable luxury to have a chance to stand and watch the wind rippling of the surface of the water in the moonlight.

When he found himself on a rocky outcrop that overhung the reservoir, he knelt on the edge and looked down into the water.

He could sense no one about so he took a chance and set his hood back onto his shoulders and gazed at his reflection in the water. There were not many mirrors in his world and in any case he had never welcomed the sight of his reflection. He could find no beauty in his misshapen appearance.

Sometimes he would watch Jacob sleep and trace the curve of his cheek and weep that such beauty was never to be his. Catherine had often called him beautiful but as much as he wanted to believe her words, he could not.

As his thoughts turned to Catherine, he flushed, unable to escape the feeling even now, that it was he who had gotten her killed. He'd been over the events of a year ago so many times in his head and he could form no other conclusion. If he had never found her, lying there in the park bleeding, she would never have known of him or his world. Part of him found that almost unsupportable, but he knew, that their chance meeting had changed her life, and not always for the better.

He could not fault her desire for justice. Her work for the District Attorney's office had been exemplary, but he could see that she had taken risks she should not, would not have taken if she had not had such faith in Vincent's ability to keep her safe. And there his shame lie. She had trusted him, and he had failed her.

His anger erupted into a snarl at the reflection in the water below. He could feel the fine hairs on his cheeks, nose and forehead prickle and stand up, and his snarl exposed his long sharp white teeth. He clenched his fingers into the palms of his hand and felt his claws dig into his skin.

He allowed his hard won control to drop and gave one tortured roar of grief and despair before springing to his feet and striding off into the woods, not even pausing to wipe the tears from his eyes.

Even amidst this spate of grief, Vincent was as always on the alert for the unexpected. He had to be. As he made his way through the shadowy stands of trees back towards the main tunnels that opened into this world, he was still attempting to bring his emotions under control. He did not think he could shut himself away underground unless he managed to conquer these unruly thoughts. He knew himself given to brooding, but this recent anniversary of the death of his Catherine had brought his feelings to the forefront.

Although he often wandered the dark parklands at night, he usually avoided The Rambles if he could. It was too easy to be seen by the others there in the shadows, and the scent and sounds of such casual sex always unsettled him. Until Catherine, those desires had been carefully locked away. After her death, there was simply no place in his life for such things.

But his thoughts must have distracted him, for he never saw the man in the dark clothes until he ran into him. The man's knife flashed silver as he took a swipe at Vincent, who batted the man's arm away with a snarl. The knife sailed in an arc through the air as the man rolled back down the leafy embankment.

Vincent started to go after him, but he heard moaning from beneath the nearby bridge and he turned towards the sound. This was all the chance Thomas Fuller needed to get away, slipping beneath the bridge and running down the culvert into the darkness. Vincent's need to help overrode his desire to chase after him. And there, in the weak light of a nearby lamp he saw a man, blood spattered across his face, lying broken and boneless, half propped up against the stone façade of the bridge abutment.

A quick check assured him that the man was still breathing, although his breaths were shallow and rough. Vincent did what he could to assess the man's injuries. He did not wish to move him if he didn't have to, but he soon realized that the man was bleeding heavily from numerous head wounds. His white t-shirt was rapidly turning red as it soaked up the blood trickling down his neck. From the slashes to the shirt's material, Vincent guessed there were also deep cuts to his abdomen that would surely require stitches. He found himself checking gently for broken bones, paying special attention to the man's neck and back. He could feel no broken bones. He looked to see if there were people around who could take care of this man, but seeing no one, he felt he'd better take this man below and see if Father could render assistance. The man was bleeding heavily, and there did not seem to be any other option.

As he was preparing to gather the man in his arms, he noticed the gleam of the knife blade a few feet away. He was tempted to ignore it, but his long association with Catherine, and more recently Diana, gave him pause to think that perhaps the weapon that was used in this attack might be of some use in tracking down the perpetrator. So he quickly ripped a strip of fabric from his cloak and used it to gather up the knife which he then he tucked into his boot.

He paused to think of the closest access point to the tunnels from his current location. There was a drainage tunnel over the next hill which, while not heavily used was close and would provide Vincent the ability to get this injured man to medical help sooner. There might even be a sentry on duty, or a pipe junction where he could tap out a message to let Father know his medical expertise would be required.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the moaning of the man lying on the ground. He was regaining at least partial consciousness. Vincent pulled his hood firmly over his head, and knelt next to him to see what aid he could offer. The man looked up at him, but seemed unable to focus his gaze. This was not a surprise to Vincent who had seen the effects of head wounds before -- usually in the service of expanding the tunnels and dealing with falling rocks -- but he was not prepared for the injured man to grasp on to his shirt with both hands, pull him close, and whimper softly. The man finally managed to speak, and his words affected Vincent deeply.

"Please," the man begged, "it's okay ... I want you to ..."

Vincent grasped the man's shoulders and said in what hoped was a soothing tone, "It'll be alright. I'm taking you somewhere where you can be helped."

"No!" the man cried, struggling to speak. "Please, you've got to finish this. Everything will be okay. Just please ... I want to die. Everything will be better if you just help me die."

Vincent stared down at the man. He was not unfamiliar with the wish to die, but he couldn't see how it was going to make things right.

"Hush, now," he said, gathering the man up in his arms. With a cry of pain and anguish the man struggled against him for a bit and then went limp in his arms. Vincent checked his pulse, which was faint and slow, and hurried his steps towards to tunnels.

 

A half hour later, Father sighed as his fingers deftly sifted through the man's hair, searching for injuries, finally saying what Vincent suspected he was thinking.

"We've been over this so many times. You should have left him above."

"Father, the man was bleeding and in pain. I couldn't just let him lie there and suffer. And those head wounds needed attention."

"Still," Father continued in that stubborn way of his.

"The poor man was raving. He was actually begging me to kill him. I could not leave him there to suffer."

They had had this argument many times. Despite his dislike for the world above, Father's medical training won out as he continued with his examination.

"With these skull fractures, he surely has a concussion. We won't know how bad it is until he regains consciousness. But there is much we can do in the meantime. Gavin, do we have..."

"I have a tray for the stitches, and bandages already prepared, Father," Gavin said with a smile.

"What do we stand for if not for helping those in need," Vincent prodded gently.

"Yes, yes, of course we must help this young man."

They did what they could for him, but his wounds were very severe, and after a time Father stepped back from the table with a sigh.

"We've done all we can do, for now."

"Are you sure?" Vincent asked, from the edge of the room where he had been watching Father and the nurse, Gavin work on the injured man.

Gavin nodded, his fingers still on the man's wrist, checked the man's pulse. At last he tucked the man's arm against his side, and pulled the patched white sheet up over his shoulders.

"We must let him rest, and watch him closely." Father said, trailing off at the end, not needed to articulate his thoughts as he reached out gently and closed his hand around the man's shoulder.

"I'll help you get him settled, Vincent said.

Father, waved his assent as he stood looking down at the body. He then limped off to the basin in the corner to wash his hands.

"I'll help you," Gavin said softly, and Vincent nodded to him as he gently picked the man up and together they settled him in one of the small rooms near Father's infirmary.

Father went to update the council, and Vincent headed for his chamber to write a note to Diana. The note written and dispatched, Vincent stepped to the crib at the head of his bed, and picked his son up in his arms and gently kissed him awake.

 

Meanwhile, Gavin did what he could for this poor man, slipping him out of his remaining clothes as gently as he could, smiling at the ridiculous, mismatched argyle socks he exposed when he unlaced the man's boots. He washed him, wincing as he rinsed away blood and dirt. Then he got him into a pair of soft blue pajama bottoms. He found himself talking to the unconscious man, knowing it to be ridiculous, but unable to bear the quietness of the room.

"I've been where you were. Done what you did," he confessed to the nameless stranger.

Gavin idly checked the man's arms looking for track marks, but his soft smooth skin was unblemished.

"Well, maybe you weren't high. Maybe that was just my thing. But it's easy to lose yourself in that park."

Gavin gathers the man's jeans and his vest, hoping they can be laundered. The t-shirt they had had to cut off him earlier. He stops to run his fingers along the smooth surface of the wings pinned to the vest. On a whim, Gav unhooks the pin from the man's vest and crosses to the bedside.

"These seem important to you." Gav says, running his thumb across the man's chin. "Better if you keep 'em close."

He puts them, along with the man's watch with the wide leather band in the drawer of the side table. Also the wad of cash, a cloth handkerchief, a lighter, and a set of keys -- a metal keytag with a honey-combed T engraved on it jingling softly as he dropped the keys in with the other belongings.

 

The injured man woke slowly, felt himself easing back into to world. He hadn't quite managed to find the energy to open his eyes, but the feel of the air and the smell of damp earth told him he must be back in the Hub. Things were still a bit fuzzy in his head but as he was warm and comfortable he decided there was no sense fighting the desire to sleep.

The next time he woke he was sure it was nighttime, although he wasn't sure how he knew this. This time it seemed so much easier to let his eyes flutter open and take in his surroundings.

He certainly wasn't prepared for what he saw. He was clearly not back in Cardiff. Sitting in a rocking chair across the room, reading a book was ... a lion man?! He blinked several times and tried to focus. When the man remained sitting there eyes fixed on the book in his hands, he attempted to convince himself of what he was seeing. The man had a wonderful golden head of hair and the features of a lion. Fur dusted his face and covered his hands, which were tipped with bright sharp claws. The man in the bed had a sudden desire to bury his nose in that hair, and feel those pointed nails rake up his back.

But when he tried to move his head the rush of pain that spiked through him took any thoughts of pleasure away. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on relaxing muscles sore from his struggles, and stiff from the attack. It was very quiet there, wherever he was. He could hear people talking softly in the distance, but couldn't make out what they were saying. And closer to him, was that strange lovely man, silently sitting. He realized in a rush that this man was keeping watch over a sleeping stranger's body ... his body. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on listening to the lion man rocking gently and slowly turning the pages of his book, which rustled beneath his fingers. They were good sounds and the man fell back into quiet restful sleep.

 

Gavin was used to dealing with pain and injury. But he found himself oddly connected to this man, this stranger. He's sure they've never met, but he feels somehow that he knows him all the same. So when it's once again his turn to watch over the stranger, he ignores the chair in the corner and opts instead for sitting at the end of the bed, curling his feet up under him and staring at the man.

He simply sit and watches as the injured man breathes slow and steady under the covers. Once, not so very long ago, it had been Gavin who lay in this bed, injured and alone.

"You have to know how beautiful you are," he says quietly to the man, before finding himself crying over the fate of this unknown man's life. He hugs his knees to his chest then, thinking of how he too came to an end like this, and of the others like him who haven't been so lucky as to be rescued. He knows what it feels like to lie in a ditch, cold and alone, and how pain can take your breath and make you wish for death.

So he's shocked beyond belief when he hears a quiet voice saying, "If you're crying over me, kid, trust me, I'm not worth your tears."

 

"But... but your injuries!" Father said, nearly shouting, as he finished checking the man over some time later. He hadn't quite believed Gavin when he'd burst into his chamber and announced, "The stranger, he's been healed!"

"Yeah, I get that a lot," the man said smiling. His fingers were busy fiddling with the bedclothes, which took something away from his brash answer.

"I don't understand how this is possible. I examined you myself."

The man in the bed started to speak, but stopped.

"Please," he asked, finally, "could I have some water?"

The younger man, the nurse, slipped into the room at his request, helped him sit up and handed him a glass of cool water, then stepped back tentatively, hovering some distance from the bed.

The man in the bed had seen that look many times over the years, the look of people who were unable to believe what was right in front of them. Gavin looked scared, and he supposed he couldn't blame him. But he had more pressing matters on his mind, and he turned to the older man, the one who seemed to be in charge.

"Where am I?"

"Someplace safe. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I'm not sure. Things are very jumbled in my head right now."

"I'm not surprised. You had some very severe head wounds."

"What kind of hospital is this," he said, looking around, but thinking of triage bunkers during the war.

 _Which war? Oh Gods where AM I? WHEN am I?_

"The best kind," the young man said. He seemed to have conquered most of his apprehension and had stepped forward to take Jack's cup, and after sitting it down on the bedside table, he busied himself with fluffing the pillow and smiling as he smoothed the hair back that flopped over Jack's forehead. Without his meaning to, Gavin found his fingers tracing skin, seeking and not finding the cuts that had so recently marred the man's temple.

"The help's pretty good, I know that much," the stranger said, trying to catch hold of the nurse's hand.

"He's a smooth talker," Gavin said looking up at Father.

"Run along, now, we two need to chat," Father replied. Gavin slipped from the room, although he paused and looked back once before he disappeared around the corner.

"What's your name, young man?"

The man lying in the bed, started to respond, and then stopped.

"Who wants to know?"

 _Who are these people?_

"You're not in trouble. We just want to know what to call you."

The man in the bed lay looking up at the strangely dressed older man standing next to his bed. The nurse, (or what he thought was the nurse) had been wearing a patched scrub top over a thermal knit shirt. But this man was wearing an odd collection of patched knit garments.

"I'm a doctor. People here call me Father ... and what should we call you ... " the old man tried again.

 _Where am I? And who am I here?_

"I'm ... you can... I ... I'm not sure," he finally said  
.  
The man called Father patted his hands and said "Never mind. I'm sure it will come back to you. Forgetting things is often a symptom of head wounds. It's good to meet you, anyway."

After his pulse was checked, the doctor checked for wounds and found none.

"I don't understand how this is possible," Father said.

"I don't really have a good answer for you. But it's true. I'm kind of hard to keep down. I should go."

The man tried to climb out of bed at that, but it didn't take much to push him back down and settle him again under the covers.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're perfectly safe here. Need I remind you someone recently tried to kill you and nearly succeeded, or whatever exactly happened to you ... Stay, at least for the night. We can talk again tomorrow and see what is best to be done."

"I am still so tired."

The man looked surprised to be admitting that, Father thought, as he watched him closely, examining him.

"See. Rest now, and we'll tackle this thing fresh in the morning."

Father handed the man a couple small white pills he shook out of a small glass bottle from his pocket. He was at first resistant to take them, but after a gruff, "they're just a mild sedative, they'll help you sleep" from the doctor, he popped them in his mouth and washed them down with the water from earlier.

 _It's not like they can kill me, and whoever these people are, they seem harmless enough._

The old man fussed around him for a bit, tucking the covers in and blowing out all but one of the candles burning in the room. Tucked up in his bed, the stranger spared a vague thought as to where he could be that there was no electricity, but soon after he was left alone, and he found himself drifting off to sleep snug under threadbare sheets and a homespun quilt in the oddest infirmary he'd ever seen. But he felt a strange sense of peace in this place. He was safe here, against every instinct telling him otherwise. And he marveled at that as he drifted off to sleep watched by an unseen man in the shadows.

And soon, he dreams.

 _He sees himself standing on a windswept bluff on Flat Holm. He can hear the alien before he sees it, sitting small and helpless on a rock. He watches it for a moment, knowing that the only thing he can do for it is to provide an easy death. He crouches down beside the rock, and his heart breaks as the small being launches itself into his arms, and nuzzles its head beneath the rough wool of his coat collar. With hard gained knowledge of this particular species' specific vulnerabilities, and a quick flurry of hands, the small creature in his arms gives a last small trill, and goes limp in his arms._

He watches himself, kneeling on the ground holding the small being in his arms, a few tears streaking his face. Surely that was simply his eyes watering from the brisk ocean breezes. It's easier to tell himself this. But he remembers sensing the creature's last gasp for air, and feeling something inside him snap. Even now he knows remorse was useless. He had a job to do, and so he laid the baby Phffrexian on the ground, pulled a bit of tech from yet another alien race out of the pocket of his duffle coat, aimed it, and scattered the being's atoms across the rocky outcrop.

The others, back at his base, had not even considered this enough of a threat to warrant sending the team. They merely called on the one person they knew could not object to doing this thing which must be done with some dispatch.

"Cruel to be kind, Jacky. After all, what kind of life would it have?" Ruth had said, handing him the coordinates scrawled on a blue index card, along with the alien tech and clipboard containing the paperwork to sign it out of the archives. "I've phoned Davy whats-his-name, you know, the chap with the boat. Don't be age, now lad. There's work to be done."

The man in his dream stands looking out over the water, watching the gulls dip and weave in the breeze, at last deciding he is done with this place. There might be reasons to stay. But the price he has to keep paying over and over again is just too high. He wants nothing more at this moment, than to forget.

It's going to take him a long time to forget the sound of the child's cries.

He jerks awake in the darkness. At least he thinks he's awake, although he can still hear the wail of a child, and a chill runs through him.

He's shaky on his feet. Whatever they've given him for the pain is strong, and makes him fuzzy and unable to focus. And he's pretty sure his brain is still unscrambling itself. Being unsure of where he is going, he finds himself holding onto the rock walls. He's trying to follow the sound, and this seems like the way, but at the same time it doesn't and he can't quite put his finger on what's wrong.

 _Has there been a shift in time? A phase shift courtesy of the rift? Have I finally cracked up for good? Am I even still on earth?_

Not quite awake, and not completely sure where he is, all he can think of is that they've brought the baby alien back to experiment on it. He goes towards the noise, or tries to, but he can't seem to lift his feet and he keeps shaking his head trying to get rid of the dizziness.

It doesn't help his sense of confusion when he turns a corner and indeed finds himself in the room where the child is crying, but the room is one that he is certain he has never been in before.

But then he is stunned by what is in front of him. He is looking at the face of a small child, who is being held over the shoulder of someone vaguely familiar, someone with the most amazing mass of golden brown hair. The child is being held and rocked in a chair facing away from the doorway. The chamber is lit by a combination of electric lamps with stained glass shades, oil lamps, and candles, all of which are highlighted by the flickering flames of a brazier in one corner. There are steel column set into the rock walls, and between then, armoires filled with odd items and books – there are books everywhere – and there is a threadbare oriental carpet on the floor. He startles when he looks up and realizes he is standing beneath a statue of Lady Justice, blindfolded as usual, but with a sword raised in one hand, scales in the other.

He is about to turn away and try and find his way back to his bed when the child quiets, looks at him, points, and says loudly, "Man!"

He starts to apologize, with an "I'm sorry..." when the person holding the child stands and turns suddenly, and there is suddenly much more of that golden hair. He can hardly believe what he is seeing. The person in that room has the face of a lion.

He remembers the man from before, the quiet man, but is he still dreaming?

Surely he must still be imagining these things, under the influence of drugs, or dreaming or something. As he turns to go, a wave of dizziness overcomes him and he finds himself leaning back against the tunnel wall, and sliding down as he legs go out from under him.

The lion man is suddenly kneeling in front of him. He puts out his hand and touches the man's face, stunned at the softness of the hair ... fur... whatever it is that dusts his face.

"Are you real?" he asks softy, so sure that he's dreaming.

"Very real, in fact," the lion man says as he finds himself scooped up as if he weighed nothing and placed gently on the daybed beneath a stained glass window glowing green and gold across the bed linens.

There are a million questions he wants to ask, but the bed is soft and warm and so are the lion mans hands as he smooths the hair off his forehead and covers him with a quilt.

"Rest now. You are safe here. You need to sleep. I'm sorry if my son disturbed you."

"Your son?" he asks, weakly as he feels the lion man take his pulse.

"Close your eyes and go to sleep. Jacob will not bother you again."

And there seemed no reason not to do as the man suggested, and soon after he closed his eyes, he was asleep.

He woke to the soft sounds of someone reading aloud. This time the world was once again in focus, although the pounding in his head was still there. There was no way to tell how much time had passed while he slept.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains  
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,  
But being too happy in thine happiness,  
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,  
In some melodious plot  
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—  
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!  
No hungry generations tread thee down;  
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
Fled is that music -- do I wake or sleep?

When the reading stopped, he ventured to speak.

"What time is it?"

"You're awake," the lion man said, looking up as he set his book on the table in the center of the room.

"You tell me. I can't be sure I'm not still dreaming. Shelley?"

"Keats, actually. You seemed restless. I thought it might help improve your dreams."

"Oh, yes. The… a friend and I once visited him. He had a lovely smile, Keats. Ticklish though, just under…"

He looked up at the lion man, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. He stopped for a moment to consider what he had said, and realized he needed to get these thoughts of his under control.

"How are you feeling?" he was asked, justifiably, he thought.

"Things are more in focus, but my head is still pounding."

"Do you think you could eat something? I could get you something from the kitchens."

"Where am I?"

The lion man sat back in his chair, and stared at the injured man for a long time before saying simply, "Where is the last place you remember being?"

He found himself trying to remember and being assaulted by a jumble of memories ... soft wool beneath his fingers, the welcome scrape of flesh on stone, then the flash of the knife, bright sharp pain, and the sudden desire for death,

"I was in the park. It was night. There was... suddenly there was pain, and blood. I could taste it," he said softly, hungry no more at the memory of pain and fear and the taste of blood.

"You are in a safe place, not far from where you were attacked. You were badly hurt. You needed our help."

"And what do I call you?" he asked.

"My name is Vincent," the lion man said, as he rose from his chair, and helped Jack prop himself up on the pillows at the end of the bed.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he asked, reaching up and running his thumb across the fur that dusted Vincent's cheeks. Vincent flinched, and stepped back, turning away from him before speaking.

"My father tells me you could not remember your name when he spoke to you earlier. Do you know it now?"

"The older man, with the limp and the interesting wardrobe?" he asked, as he struggled to sit up.

Vincent turned back and simply smiled. It was a beautiful smile the man thought, although it clearly showed off some very sharp teeth.

"We went through your pockets before we cleaned your clothes. You had no identification. Only a handkerchief with the initials JH and a few other things."

Names came to him, then.

 _James Harper… John… You can call me Jack… Captain Jack Harkness, at your service… Jack…_

None of them really belong to him, and he hesitates before continuing.

"Please. Call me Jack." There seems no reason not to use this name here among these people.

And suddenly, his hand goes to his wrist, searching. He is not wearing his wrist-strap.

"My things?"

They're safe, back in your room. In the side table," Vincent tells him.

Some instinct tells him to turn the attention away from himself. He doesn't wish to lie to these people who had been so kind, but it's hard to sort out what he should reveal. His head is still throbbing, and it's not completely clear to him yet the best way to handle this turn of events. It is too big a puzzle to be solved in that moment, so he tries to ignore it.

Vincent, meanwhile has crossed to the doorway of his chambers

"If you sit quietly for a few minutes I will bring you something to eat."

"But this is your room, your bed..."

"That is no matter. I do not require very much sleep."

"That sounds familiar," Jack says softly to himself as Vincent walked out of the chamber and turned the corner.

Vincent brings him a simple breakfast, and he eats hungrily. He had not thought he was hungry, but the food tastes good.

As he watches, Vincent tidies the room, putting small toys in a basket and folding blankets and laying them in the crib.

"Where is your son?" Jack asks between bites of egg and toast.

"With his grandfather."

"He's beautiful."

"He is like his mother."

"She's…"

"Dead. Murdered."

"I'm sorry."

"It is hard for me to talk about."

Jack caught the other man's hand. Vincent startled at the touch.

"I know what it is to lose a wife, Vincent."

"But you … up … in the park…?"

"Life isn't simple, and grief is long," Jack said, squeezing Vincent's hand tighter.

Vincent stared down at their joined hands, marveling at the easy touches from this stranger. Rare was the stranger who reached out towards him. They were more apt to recoil from his touch. But so far this man had shown no surprise as his appearance. Vincent was not sure what to make of this. He found himself simply watching Jack as he ate.

With a last bite of toast, and a long drink of tea, Jack finished his breakfast and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"Can I ask," Jack said, fiddling with his napkin, "where I am? No one seems to want to say."

"This is a secret place, far below the city streets. My father created this place when there was no room for him in the world above. We live a secret life down here. Had you not been so gravely injured, I would not have brought you here."

"You live a secret life underground, in tunnels carved out below a city?" Jack said, and burst out laughing. He couldn't help himself.

Vincent tensed, watching Jack warily. Jack, still consumed with laughter, waved vaguely at him, trying to diffuse the tension.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to breathe and control his outburst. "You don't understand."

Vincent stared at him, his head tipped to the side, trying to make sense out of this exchange.

Jack waved him into the chair opposite.

"Forgive me. Its just … life is funny, y'know. Chances are you won't believe me, but my life outside … before … all that," he said gesturing overheard, "involved a lot of time spent in a secret underground place far across the ocean. Secrets I understand."

The two men looked at each other. There was so much more to say, but each was able to take the measure of the other, and somehow the beginnings of a connection were formed.

Vincent found himself, suddenly saying, "Would you like to see this world of ours?"

"I would love that," Jack replied.

With the loan of a soft, worn shirt, which Jack pulled over his head, a dressing gown, some wooly socks and a pair of slippers Jack was dressed and ready to see more of this mysterious world.

They started by returning the breakfast tray to the kitchens, a large room, with a cast iron stove, and several brick ovens built into a niche across one end of the room. There was a large wooden table in the middle of the room with benches on either side. At one end, several people sat, sipping tea from a brown pot on the table, and talking softy. Near then was a woman, attempting to spoon oatmeal into her baby's mouth. The baby was more interested in trying to grab the spoon from her, but she smiled up at them as they passed, jiggling the child in her lap and laughing when it managed to grab hold of the spoon, getting a fist full of oatmeal.

A burly man with a beard was at the other end of the long table, chopping carrots. He nodded at them as Vincent led them to a side table where there were basins of water for washing dishes, and a rack for drying them. In no time they had washed and dried the cup, plate, bowl, and spoon.

"The kitchens are one of our communal spaces," Vincent explained, as he finished drying the dishes and stacked them on a shelf. "All are welcome to use this space, and we share what we have among us. Except for feast days, it's an informal thing. People here are welcome to come and go as they please."

They didn't talk much as Vincent led Jack past schoolrooms and workshops, and then farther out they came to a large, spiral staircase, worn and rusty, but reaching up through many layers of rock and concrete. When they got to the top, they came out into a large arched tunnel – an abandoned subway tunnel by the looks of it, made of brick. At some point it had been painted white, but was now worn and dusty. Jack stopped and stared at the brick walls that arched over their heads. He stepped close and ran his fingers across it.

"This feels like home," he thought, and for a moment, he found himself missing Cardiff, and his own secret world beneath the Plass.

There were more people here, working together in small groups, making things.

They nodded at Vincent as he passed among those gathered together, who sometimes called to him to show him what they were working on. Jack watched him greet each person kindly, stopping and inspecting the work that was going on.

Once they were out of the large tunnel, there were smaller tunnels, and ladders, and staircases carved into the rock. They came out of a tunnel at one point onto a sandy area, and Jack realized as he looked around that he was standing in a large cavern, through which ran an underground river. It was stunning this world, and he stood staring, watching the water flow by.

"When we were young men, my friends and I tried to follow this river to its source. But the river kept it's mysteries," Vincent said, standing next to Jack and trying to see this place through a strangers eyes.

"Have you always lived here," Jack asked Vincent.

"I was born in the world above. But I was abandoned soon after my birth. Those who found me, brought me here, and Father has looked after me all my life. I owe these people everything. I would not have lived if they had not made a place for me in this world."

Vincent started up the path along the river, and Jack scrambled to follow.

"We should be getting back," Vincent said over his shoulder. "Father will want to talk to you, and I am eager to see my son."

And so they came at last to the heart of the world below. Vincent ushered Jack into Father's library. From the upper level they could see the old man sitting in his chair, with a book in front of him, but he was clearly not concentrating on the book. He was looking over his glasses, watching Jacob who was sitting on a quilt on the floor banging a stuffed tiger in the face with a rattle.

Jack looked around the book-filled room. It was similar to Vincent's chamber but much larger. There was disorder here too, books jumbled up on shelves, odd bits of statuary and porcelain figurines, giant metal gear wheels, and a mass of papers on the big desk below, but he sensed warmth and love and light as well.

Vincent crossed to Father, leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss on his temple.

"I have been giving Jack a tour."

"Jack?" Father said, looking up at Vincent.

Vincent nodded. "His memory seems to be just fine this morning," he said.

"You have an amazing world here," Jack said, coming down the wrought iron staircase to the lower level.

Father laid his book on the desk behind him, and rose. "I still don't understand how you can have healed so quickly."

"It's a long story," Jack said as he knelt on the edge of the quilt and started stacking up some blocks for Jacob to knock over. "Most of which you either wouldn't believe, or couldn't understand. Hell, I don't understand it most of the time."

The three men watched, then as Jacob knocked down the tower of blocks, and toddled across the floor, calling "Papa!" and holding his arms up to Vincent.

Vincent picked his son up, and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

Jack watched the easy affection between these fathers and sons, and want flared in his chest. It had been a long time since he had known this kind of warmth between people. And even longer since he had known familial bonds like these.

But the peace of the moment was broken as Gavin suddenly came into the room waving a newspaper, and clattering down the steps.

"There's been another killing in the park. Isn't there anything we can do?" Gavin asked. He handed the paper to Father as he turned away saying quietly, "I knew this one. Paul was my friend."

They read the short piece in the paper and stared at the picture of a man who could have been Jack's twin.

Jack stepped close to Gavin, to offer some comfort, but Gavin shoved him away.

"Don't! This is your fault. If you had died, he wouldn't have needed to kill Paul."

"Gavin," Father remonstrated, taking hold of the boy's arm.

"No, it's all right. Let him say what he wants," Jack said, the muscles of his jawline tensing.

Gavin took a deep breath, and walked over the Jack. "I'm sorry. But Paul was my friend."

"I understand kid, believe me."

"Please, you've got to help us."

"What makes you think I can help?"

"Look, you didn't die, right? So maybe you could go out there again…"

Jack walked away to the far corner of the room with his back turned to the other men. Without looking at them, he said.

"I tired of being used to clear up other people's messes. I won't do it. I can't."

And with that he clattered up the steps, and disappeared down the tunnel.

Jack was pretty good at finding his way around, even without Vincent's calm presence beside him. So after only a couple wrong turns, he found his way back to the chamber he was starting to think of as his. The infirmary was, after all, not that far from Father's library. It was the middle of the day, and Jack had no idea where the people who lived down here were, or what they did to pass the time in this underground world of theirs. But he found himself in need of some space and time alone to think. He flopped down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. For a long time he just lay there, trying not to think about how these people too could only see him for what they could use him for.

Eventually he started to notice the rock formations overhead, the cracks, the bumps and divots, and the little sparkly bits that clung here and there to the rock. The image of a starry night came to him, but he didn't want to think of them like stars in the sky. He'd given up looking up at the stars a long time ago. He knew the stars were there, and that there were other worlds out there, but thinking about what he was missing had driven him mad with longing so many times.

It had been so long since there had been a war to throw himself into, in the hopes of forgetting, to take his mind off the waiting. Gods, how he hated being stuck on this watery rock in the middle of a galaxy he could no longer touch.

Disgusted with himself, he blocked out the view with an arm over his eyes, and lay there. He was still recuperating. He could feel how tired he was after his walk through the tunnels with Vincent. But it was more than that. He was just done. He had run out of the energy to care anymore. But there was a sense of peace to be found here in this world. He rolled his arm back and looked again at the tiny sparkles over his head.

With a sour laugh he rubbed his hands across his eyes, and went to sit up.

That was when he saw Gavin standing in the doorway with a tray in his hands.

"I thought you might like some lunch."

Jack looked at the kid standing there, and anger flared through him for a moment, before draining out with a sigh.

"What'd you bring me?" he asked the kid.

"A turkey sandwich, some milk, and a banana," Gavin said, taking a few steps into the room, and setting the tray down on the bed.

He retreated to the rocking chair in the far corner of the room, and curled up in it, tucking his feet up and watching Jack cautiously.

"It's okay, kid. The only thing I'm going to bite is that sandwich," Jack said, taking an immense bite of a very large sandwich. The food here was very simple, but very good.

"Can I talk to you while you eat?" Gavin asked, picking at a patch over the knee of his jeans.

Jack looked at him for a long time, and then nodded, before digging back into his sandwich. Bits of it kept falling out, and Jack kept picking up the bits and eating them with his fingers. Gavin found himself distracted by the sight of Jack licking pickle juice off his fingers. Jack caught him looking eventually, and he blushed, and forged ahead with what he came to say.

"Maybe you don't understand what this place means to someone like me. You see, I know what it's like to cruise the park trading money for sex from people who are willing to pay for it. I do know what it feels like to be used. But this place saved me. See, my Father's a helper…"

"A what?" Jack asked.

"Someone who lives in the world above, but helps out down here when there is a need -- he has been for years."

Jack nodded as he took a big gulp of milk and nodded at Gavin to continue.

"We used to come down all the time when I was a kid. These people are so grateful for any help. You should see how wonderful the Winter Festival is! But, we'd come down to deliver supplies, and I'd run off and play with the other kids here for hours. This place, it's like magic. The first time I heard Shakespeare was in one of Vincent's classes. He read to us from Hamlet, and I was hooked. The kids here put on plays. Vincent helped us put on Cyrano one spring when I was fourteen."

Gavin had leaned his head against the back of the rocking chair, and he had his eyes closed.

"I don't think you ever get over the first time you stand in front of people and hear them applaud you. So I studied, and I worked, and at nineteen I got into Julliard. And then a year later they sat me down and told me I'd never make anything of myself, and if I was sensible I'd start applying to City College as I wasn't welcome there for the next semester.

Well, I went off the rails after that. My whole life had just been flushed down the toilet. And so I started going out, drinking, dancing in the clubs all night long, sleeping my days away. And after someone gave me that first hit of coke... well there was no looking back after that. My Dad tried. Sent me to rehab a couple times, but it never took. I hardly blame my Dad for kicking me out when I was 22. I mean, what else could he do? He had a pharmacy to run, and I was so messed up I was stealing the inventory."

Gavin sat up, feet on the floor, and looked Jack in the eyes as he continued.

"There I was, on the street, with no money, and no job, and a coke habit to feed. When you have nothing, it's only too easy to start selling the only thing you have left... yourself. You can make pretty good money if you're willing to never say no, no matter what the request. And I've done it all. Well, you know. I took one look at you when you came in and I knew what you were doing up there in that park. So maybe you know something about doing what it takes to get by."

Jack nodded, as Gavin continued.

"I don't have too many friends. Real friends, I mean. The kind who'll hold you when you're sick, or who'll patch you up when you get into something a lot rougher than you anticipated. The kind of person who will look at you when you're having a bad day and just open his arms wide, and do nothing but hold you, and whisper kind words in your ear.

Well that was my Paul. I didn't deserve him. Hell, he started out as a customer. But he was a damn nice man, and now he's dead, and I have to do something about that. I have to make sure that the bastard who killed him never touches another human being again. I owe him that. He believed in me, and I loved him for it, despite the fact that I left him alone up there when I escaped down here to this place.

I got beat all to hell one dark night by a pack of kids. Schoolboys out to have some fun beating up some lousy fag they picked up in the park. They broke my nose, and three of my ribs and dumped me in a drainage ditch. Actually I should thank them for that. They brought me back to this world that I loved as a child, and I have lived here ever since. Father and Vincent and the others helped me get well, and get clean.

So I don't really care how pissed off you are at me, but you have to help me get this guy. Please, I'll beg if I have to. I'll go down on my knees ... and that's something I swore I would never do again. Going back up there and putting myself back in that situation will be really tough for me, but I'll do it for Paul. Please Jack."

"Don't beg kid." Jack said, crossing to the chair where Gavin was curled in a ball, tears streaming down his face. He crouched down in front of the chair.

"I told you I'm not worth your tears." Jack said, staring at Gavin.

Gavin slid off the chair, and wrapped his arms around Jack, fisting his hands in the fabric of Jack's dressing gown.

"Please," he said, his voice cracking as he clung to Jack and wept.

When the worst of the tears had passed, Jack pulled Gavin to his feet.

"I'm an old man, Gav, and this floor is hard on my knees." He steered Gavin to the bed, tucked him under the quilt, slipped in behind him, and wrapped his arms around the boy's waist.

"Go to sleep. We'll figure all this out in the morning." Gavin wound his fingers in between Jacks, squeezed his hand tightly and sighed.

Jack didn't sleep much that night, but stayed in the bed, offering what comfort he could to Gavin whose dreams kept bringing him awake, wracked with grief.

When Jack woke the next morning, he was alone in the bed, but sitting on the floor next to the bed was a fuzzy haired man or boy. Jack couldn't tell which while he was working the sleep from his eyes. Whoever it was, was watching him with sharp dark eyes.

"Whatever else this world provides, privacy isn't one of its selling points," Jack thought.

The manboy crept closer to the bed, still on his knees and peering over the edge of the bed.

"Are you Jesus?" he asked.

Jack laughed a loud, bitter laugh, and looked at this odd creature asking him this bizarre question.

"Mouse wants to know. Mouse's mother told him stories of Jesus, how he was killed by bad men, but then he came back to life after being shut up in a cave. Mouse wonders are you him? Did you come back to life so you can help other people attacked by bad men?"

"Who told you I died?"

"Mouse heard. Mouse hears everything."

"Well ... Mouse... you shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"Too bad. Jesus was great."

"Was he?"

"Mama had a book, with pictures. She would read it to me. Jesus was the best. He helped people."

"You like helping people?"

"Mouse helps. Lots and Lots. Lotsa times. You sure you're not Jesus?"

"Sorry Mouse."

The boy looked so sad, that Jack found himself sitting up and patting the mattress. Mouse clambered up onto the bed as Jack continued.

"I do know someone a little like that, who helps people. Would you like to hear a secret about a friend of mine?"

When Mouse crept even closer, Jack said softly, "He lives in a magic blue box."

"Mouse loves magic boxes!"

"I haven't seen him in a long, long time."

"Do you miss him?" Mouse asked.

"Yeah, I do," Jack replied softly.

"It's not good to be lonely," Mouse said, before bouncing on the bed a bit and demanding more about the "blue magic magic box.'

And so it was that when Father came to check on the man who very recently had been his patient he found Mouse kneeling on the man's bed, clutching the bed frame and listening to a story.

"...and so I said to him, who looks at a screwdriver and decides it could be a little more sonic?"

"Is Mouse bothering you Jack?"

"Mouse not a bother! Mouse knows a secret now. A secret blue secret."

Father smiled as Mouse patted Jack before slipping off the bed, and muttering something about making things sonic, Mouse disappeared into the tunnels.

"That fellow's .... well...." Jack said.

"Mouse is certainly one of a kind. He's been a part of this community for a long time now. Who knows what would have happened to him if he had not found his way down here.

"He mentioned his mother."

"As far as we can make out, she died when he was small, and left him alone to fend for himself. He was nearly feral when Vincent found him hiding in the tunnels. Some days he's a great deal of trouble, but he is a very important part of our community."

There was a long pause while the two men stared at each other. Jack spoke finally.

"I meant what I said yesterday. You've created something special here."

"There's no place I'd rather be. Once I thought I could go back up and make my life above. But that was not to be. Maybe it will work out differently for you," Father said with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Jack could sense that there were things Father wasn't telling him, but he saw no reason to push for information. The old man would share if he wanted to.

"I'll leave you to get dressed," Father continues. If you would join us in the library, Vincent and his friend Diana would like to talk to you about your attack. Perhaps you can provide some information that will be helpful. I'll have someone bring us a breakfast tray."

And with that Jack was left alone to gather his clothes and his thoughts.

They met around a small table in Father's library. Jack stood stiffly along the edge of the room, picking at the spines of the geography section. Part of him wanted to just leave this place, and these people as they were no responsibility of his. But he knew that he owed them something for their help, much as he might not want to admit it. And though he was loathe to admit it, he was getting tired of running away from his problems.

There was hot tea, and muffins on the table. Father handed Jack a steaming cup of tea and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Diana is on her way. Then we can see what is best to be done here."

"You mentioned Diana before. Who is she?" Jack asked, turning and leaning back against the bookshelves.

"She's a helper. She came into Vincent's life while he was searching for Catherine. They worked together for months trying to track her down from the man who took her. And then, when she was killed … just after Jacob was born … they carried on searching for the child. Diana's a police officer, a specialist who… well, I'm not sure exactly what she does, but…"

A voice from above floated down.

"I'm what's beginning to be known as a Criminal Profiler. But I'm not sure I know exactly what I do either," Diana said, smiling as she came down the steps. Vincent followed her. Jack thought the two made a striking pair as they stood side-by-side, Vincent's golden hair contrasting with Diana long red hair. Jack's immediately concluded that Diana could take care of herself.

"Diana Bennett," she said, shaking Jack's hand.

"Jack … Harkness," he added when Diana gaze refused to drop.

"Vincent tells me you may have some information about the killings in the park. I'd be interested in hearing about that," she said as she crossed to the table and took a seat. She pulled a notepad out of her bag and motioned to Jack to take a seat.

"What do you want to know?" he asked her.

"Tell me anything you can remember about the man who attacked you. If we could track him down, and get him off the streets, we'd be doing the world a real service."

"I'm not sure I can tell you all that much. We met in the park, went under the bridge to have sex, and the bastard nearly bashed my skull in after holding a knife to my throat."

"Did you do anything to him to provoke him?"

"You trying to say this was my fault?"

"Not at all. I'm just wondering what made this man attack you.

"I don't know. I don't usually get complaints about my … abilities in that area."

Diana arched one delicate eyebrow and looked at the man sitting across the table from her. She chuckled, finally, and turned to Vincent for her next question.

"You said you had recovered the weapon?"

Vincent crossed to the table with a cloth wrapped bundle in his hands. He set it down on the table, and let Diana fold the cloth back, carefully.

"There's nothing all that unusual that I can see about the knife," she said, mostly to herself, before making a few notes. "I'll have the lab test it for prints and trace evidence and see if there's anything it can tell us."

She wrapped it up in the cloth again, and dug in her bag to get an evidence bag to put it in.

"I've got a friend at the FBI labs who owes me a favor. I think I can get her to rush this through for me but it will certainly be tomorrow before we will know anything conclusive."

Diana poured herself a cup of tea, and stirred in some honey before continuing.

"Can you remember anything about how the man looked? Anything he might have done that sticks with you?

Jack slumped down in his chair, tipping his head back, and closing his eyes.

"Slightly shorter than me, I'd say 5' 10 or so, sandy blond hair, green eyes. He had on jeans, a gray shirt, and a green sweater with a hood. He had a tiny scar just under his right eye. He was wearing some kind of aftershave, heavy on the musk notes. I could also tell he was a smoker and he'd recently had a pastrami sandwich."

When he saw Father, Vincent, and Diana staring, he broke off with a shrug, adding only, "he had a blob of mustard on his collar as well."

"That's very… thorough," Diana said looking down at the notes she'd been taking.

"I'm good at what I do."

"And what is that exactly, when you're not busy soliciting men in the park?"

"Oh, this and that…" he said, picking up a muffin, and eating it in three big bites.

"I see. I still have a few questions about this man. How he acted. Was there anything special or different about him?"

Jack was silent for a while, thinking back to that night. It seemed so far away in his memory for happening so recently.

"I think what set him off was when I wouldn't beg him for my life."

Jack looked around room before continuing.

"Have you worked out yet that I can't die?"

Diana started to speak but he held up his hand to silence her.

"To be accurate, I can't stay dead. Believe me, or don't, I don't really care. I only bring it up because it was clear that that guy, whoever he was, enjoyed killing. He likes the fear, and I haven't been afraid of death for a long time, worse luck for him. I don't know what else I can tell you."

Diana watched him carefully as she packed her things up in her bag.

"Thank you for your honesty, Jack. I'll go and see my friend and get her started on examining the knife. I'll come back tomorrow when I have her results. Then we can talk about what we might want to do next."

 

Vincent found Jack many hours later, sitting on the bank of the underground river.

"I am not so very different from this other man, you know. I've killed many times. And sometimes," Jack added almost in a whisper, "I enjoy it."

"I too have killed to defend this place, and the people I love. Saint or sinner it does not matter. To take a life is to take a life," Vincent replied looking out over the water.

"But it's…" Jack started to say, but Vincent continued.

"I don't know that I will ever be able to forgive myself for those deaths. The greatest happinesses of my life have come with a price. I know what it is to struggle with that manner of sin. But choices must be made. Sometimes action must be taken, and the consequences sorted out later. And sometimes we make the wrong choices. But the price of that choice is living with our regrets."

"I don't have any choice but to live with my actions," Jack said, bitterly.

"You and I are very different from other men. And in my experience, that difference means that sometimes it is left to us to do the things that others can't or won't do."

"I am so tired of having to think about these things," Jack said leaning back against the stone wall. "Of having a life that ordinary people can't even begin to comprehend. Back in England, I work for people who believe that the end justifies the means. Sometimes they're right. But sometimes, well, it's all too easy to tell yourself you're doing things for the right reason. Four months ago I was going along doing my job back in Cardiff. They sent me out to kill an ali…"

Jack looked at Vincent for a moment, before changing his story slightly.

"A stranger. This … person posed no threat to them, no threat to England. But it was a threat to them, and so it had to die. And I killed it. Disposed of the body, and then I just walked away. Got on a plane and headed anywhere that wasn't England. I keep trying to either forget it all, or to make sense of it somehow, but I don't see how I can."

"I do not believe you can find the answers by running away, Jack. You are going to have to face these things. Find some way to make this life of yours make sense."

"You think I should help to track this murderer down, don't you?"

"I do. My Catherine believed in justice. For me it's simpler. I believe in peace and safety. There can be neither of those while this man roams the streets looking for his victims. Before Jacob, I used to often wander the streets at night. I know the evils that exist in the world above. If we walk away when we see evil, it simply grows stronger. We cannot fight every battle. But the ones that come to us must be dealt with."

Vincent stood then, and with a much lighter tone, added, "But not tonight. Tonight we will join the others for dinner and try and forget these things for a few hours. William, who runs our kitchens, has made his special chicken stew tonight."

Jack's eyes lit up as he got to his feet.

"Do you think there might be any more of those muffins from earlier… "

Vincent laughed as he and Jack headed down the tunnel.

"Those muffins are William's secret recipe."

"Ah, but I am very good at secrets," Jack said and he too found himself laughing.

 

Then, after an evening spent in the kitchens, helping with the dinner dishes, and listening to William singing old Irish ballads while he played his guitar, Jack found his way back to his room. He crawled under the covers, and was almost asleep, when he felt someone's presence in the room.

"Couldn't sleep?" Jack asked.

Gavin sat on the edge of the bed, leaned in wrapping his hands around Jack's arms and pulling him into a kiss.

Jack kissed him back, and then leaned back as Gavin asked, "What do you want…?"

Jack ran his thumb across Gavin's bottom lip.

"Shhh… you don't have to give me anything," he said as he lifted the edge of the covers and Gavin slipped in beside him.

Gavin shifted closer to Jack, laying half on top of him, looking up at Jack while one hand traced lazy figures over Jack's heart.

He lay his head down on Jack's chest then, and listened to his heartbeat. When he felt Jack twine one finger in his hair, he said, "I just want … okay…?"

Jack rolled them over then, and looked down at Gavin.

"That's very okay," Jack told him, before pressing him back into the pillows and kissing his way down Gavin's neck.

And when they fell asleep, curled up together, warm and sated and happy, there were no nightmares to disturb their slumber.

 

When Vincent met Diana at her tunnel entrance the next day, she had a worried look on her face.

All she would say as they made their way to the home tunnels, was "I need to talk with Jack. Now."

"Do you want to tell me why every law enforcement agency on the PLANET is looking for you?" she asked, arms crossed, staring at Jack as he walked into Vincent's chambers for their meeting.

She held out a sheaf of advisory bulletins … Interpol … FBI … CIA … MI-6 … UNIT. They all had his picture on them, and all advised caution against an "armed and extremely dangerous international terrorist."

"It's sweet really, how badly they miss me," Jack mused as he flipped through the sheets of paper. "Did they go out of their way to use such an unflattering picture? I wouldn't put it past those bastards."

"Do not attempt to capture. Notify all sister agencies at once, and maintain surveillance," he read. "Yeah. That sounds like them."

"And this doesn't concern you at all?" Diana asked him, aghast.

"I'm impressed at their persistence, but no, it doesn't, actually. They've been riding my tail for … well, a lot of years now. I'm not surprised they're pissed I went off the reservation."

"And these claims of terrorism?"

"Spook speak. They just want me back under their control, and they're willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen."

"So tell me why I shouldn't arrest you myself, throw you in a holding cell, and pick up the phone."

"You could, if you like to play rough," Jack said, sliding into one of the wooden chairs in the middle of the room. He met Diana's eyes and there was a mixture of amusement, and steely resolve there that made Diana think that those bulletins were at least partly true.

"Look," he said finally, leaning forward, "I'm no threat to you. But that joker up there going around killing innocent kids is, so let's say we concentrate on catching that guy first, and then we'll talk about what to do about me."

"Actually, I have some good news in that department. I know who he is. Or at least I know whose fingerprints are on the knife."  
Diana took the other seat at the table, and pulled a file out of her bag. Vincent stepped in from where he had been standing, near the doorway, watching Diana question Jack. She opened the file folder and spread out a few papers on the table.

"Meet Thomas Robert Fuller. We got lucky on this one. The guy works for a bank that has government accounts, so all of the employees have been bonded, fingerprinted, and fully vetted."

She pulled out a copy of his driver's license, and he was, as Jack had remembered, 5 feet, 11 inches tall, blond-haired and green-eyed.

"He lives in a rent-controlled pre-war apartment on the Upper West Side just a couple blocks from the park. I guess he likes to hunt close to home."

"And I suppose it's not as simple as just showing up at his place and arresting the miserable S.O.B."

"Unfortunately, no. Without a witness, this is just some knife lying around that he might have touched. And given these," she said, patting the warning bulletins, "I don't think you want to come forward as a victim."

"I could make sure he simply disappears."

Vincent's firm voice cut into the conversation.

"No. The city needs to know who has been committing these crimes. These boys' families need to know that justice has been done."

"Just wishful thinking. But if we're going to do this one the right way, we need Gavin."

"You're not putting that boy in danger. He's been through enough," Vincent replied warily.

"I don't want him in danger any more than you do. But we need to catch this guy's attention, and we need Gavin for that. I'd do it, but he knows me. And between the three of us, we can keep him safe. Let him help us put this guy away. Let him do it for Paul."

 

And so it was that Gavin found himself in the park that night, a bit overcome by the fresh air. He had not been out of the tunnels in some time, and had been hesitant at first to step out into the cool dark evening. But Jack had been by his side. Together they had walked through the park intent on their mission, but enjoying the crisp evening air as well.

He had not hesitated to agree to this plan when Vincent brought him into the meeting with Jack and Diana. He knew what needed to be done. And he'd had enough experience with this kind of thing to know he could do it.

Gavin had dug through the clothing stores and found a light blue t-shirt that was just a touch too small but which clung to his torso in all the right ways, and a brown corduroy jacket that made his shoulders seem broader than they were. Worn with his most comfortable pair of jeans and his everyday boots, he thought he looked the part. He was sure of it when Jack came to get him and whistled at him.

The four of them – Vincent, Diana, Jack, and Gavin -- met at the tunnel's main park entrance, standing in the shadows. Gavin had jumped as the metal gate clanged shut behind them, but tried his best to control his fears. They had watched wide-eyed as Jack had tuned his wrist-strap to Diana's radio frequency, but they had not commented.

And so the two men found themselves in the park, sitting on the bench near the bridge where Jack had been attacked.

"I'm not sure I'm still any good at this," he'd said softy to Jack while they waited for dusk to fade into night.

"I'm sure," Jack told him.

"Just relax. You don't have to do anything. Just sit here and be gorgeous. He'll come to you. I'm not leaving you until Diana signals us that he's on his way. And Vincent is over there in that stand of trees waiting too."

"I know."

"You don't have to do this. Just say the word, and we'll find some other way."

"No. I want to do it," Gavin said, squeezing Jack's hand.

Jack slipped the silver pilot's wings he'd found in with his other belongings into Gavin's hand.

"For luck," he said, and kissed Gavin's knuckles as he clutched the gift tightly in his hand.

They sat silently for a while, side by side, shoulders touching as they waited.

At last, Jack's wrist-strap beeped, and then they heard Diana's voice.

"He's just crossed into the park. Get ready. I'm coming as close behind him as I can without being seen."

Jack pulled Gavin to his feet, squeezed his arm and said, "Go stand under the lamp-post. Vincent and I will be right behind you. He likes the feeling of control, so be as hesitant as you can and we'll get this bastard locked up."

Gavin just nodded, and went to lean against the post.

Jack took one look back, noting with appreciation how the light from the lamp made Gavin's hair gleam in the darkness. The boy was irresistible standing there in the yellow glow, leaning against the pole, hands in his jeans pockets, lips bitten red from worry.

"Fuller's on his way, and Diana's right behind him," Jack whispered to Vincent as they met in the darkness of a stand of evergreens just a few yards from the bridge.

For Gavin, time seemed to slow down after that. Things appeared to move in slow motion. He watched the man he assumed was Fuller come over the hill, and walk down and across the bridge.

In the trees, Jack put his hand on Vincent's shoulder, and nodded a silent, "yes, that's him."

Gavin, took a deep breath, and forced himself to relax. He leaned back into the pole, propping one foot up behind him.

After Fuller crossed the bridge, he knelt down to retie his shoelace. Gavin knew he had to make the first move.

"Hello," he said as he took a couple steps forward and tried not to maintain eye contact with Fuller.

Fuller stood then, crossing into Gavin, and smiled, saying, "It's chilly out tonight, isn't it?"

"I could do with some warmer weather, sure," Gavin replied, looking up at the other man hesitantly.

"A hot weather fan, huh?" Fuller said. "I bet you have to be careful not to burn out in the sun."

As he continued, he traced one finger down Gavin's neck, and along his clavicle. He stepped in close enough that his next words brushed across Gavin's ear, making him shiver.

"I think we should make sure that you stay in the shadows. Keep that pretty white skin of yours safe."

His hand was now inside the jacket, cupped over Gavin's shoulder, their bodies pressed together.

"I'm not sure…" Gavin said, breathless from fear and anticipation. He didn't want to seem too eager, but he needed to keep the man's interest.

"Of course you're sure," the man said, running his hand across Gavin's chest underneath the jacket. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here in the park, waiting for me."

"F-for you?" Gavin stammered, unsure where this was going.

"We both want the same thing, don't we," Fuller asked pushing their hips together suggestively.

Gavin's hand drifted to the man's hip. "Oh. Yes. I'd like that. Where…" he asked, looking around.

"I know a place," Fuller said, taking his hand and leading him down the bank into the shadow of the bridge.

When they were completely in the shadows, Fuller pushed him up against the wall.

"What do you want?" Gavin asked, his hands going for Fuller's zipper.

After that things moved very fast.

Fuller suddenly had a knife in his hand, and was holding it under Gavin's chin.

"I want you to get on your knees, sunshine, where pretty boys like you belong…"

Gavin dropped to his knees and he could feel the knife blade tracing gently the same path along his neck Fuller had earlier traced with his fingers.

"Please …" he begged, not sure if he was talking to Fuller, or to his friends in the shadows.

As Fuller started to laugh, suddenly there was a roar of light from Jack's flashlight aimed in Fuller's eyes, and Diana rounded the corner, gun drawn.

"Drop the knife, Fuller. We know who you are," she said.

"You're not going to be hurting anyone again for a long time," Jack added. "Now drop the knife."

Fuller made one lunge of protest towards Jack, when Vincent gave a roar and came at Fuller from behind.

Fuller was on the ground and hand-cuffed before he could even begin to fight back. Vincent faded back into the shadow, trying not to be seen.

Jack knelt by his head, and with his handkerchief, picked up the knife.

"Get up," he said, pulling Fuller to his feet.

"You!" Fuller cried looking at Jack and going even whiter than he had at Vincent's roar.

"Thought you'd taken care of me, huh? Well I'm notoriously hard to kill. Or maybe just notorious."

He dragged Fuller up to the path, Diana following with her hand still on her gun. Standing by the bench were two uniformed NYPD police officers.

"Let's get this guy into custody. I think you'll find he's been responsible for the killings in the park. We just caught him trying to attack this young man."

Gavin had made his way up to the path, watching Fuller warily. He knew that Jack and Diana could handle Fuller. And he knew Vincent was waiting in the shadows just in case. But he was still scared. His hands were trembling and he shoved them in his jacket pockets.

"You'll need to come and make a statement young man," the older of the two policeman said to him.

"Of course. Anything I can do, officer," he replied.

The policemen walked Fuller to their patrol car sitting nearby. Diana followed with the knife.

Jack turned to Gavin, and smiled.

"That was a good job back there. You go with Diana and she'll take care of you."

"Will I see you again?" Gavin asked.

"Probably not. It's best if I just disappear now. Safer that way for everyone.

"Thank you," Gavin said, and then walked away quickly to join Diana at the top of the hill. He turned back for one last look, but by the time he did, Jack had vanished.

When Vincent returned to the tunnels, he passed by the room that Jack had been occupying. The man had slipped away from him in the park, with a quick, "be well," and then he was gone. Lying open on the bed was a book. He picked it up and read the poem on the page in front of him.

The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,  
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,  
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,  
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;  
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,  
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold  
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.  
\--William Butler Yeats.

Scrawled in pencil in the margin, was written, "Yeats was fickle, but he had lovely fingers. Useful as I am not at all ticklish."

And laughter echoed down the long dim tunnels.


End file.
